Scars
by Jibril1
Summary: Hiding scars, glorifying scars. Who knew a Hufflepuff could be complex? Severus learns this after seeing the scars of a student for the first time.
1. Default Chapter

Story and concept by Daeg/Jibril. Characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, with the exception of the student. No money is made off of this, so please don't sue me- I don't have any money.

Severus Snape awaits and endures a detention with a Hufflepuff student, with one question in mind: where did she attain all of those scars? Surely the child didn't make them herself… has anyone else seen them?

This has been an interesting day thus far. Aside from the usual minor disasters, and the… unusual lunch special (House Elf Surprise- what they call their new invention of the month), I discovered that one of the Hufflepuff students has been cutting her wrists. Not that she will admit it. I don't understand why- she has fairly decent grades in all of her studies, does not seem to have enemies, does not seem incredibly introverted… it does not fit the classic description of a "cutter", as it has been termed. I wonder why it has not been brought to her Head of Houses attention. But then I reconsider her Head of House- the well-meaning but somewhat ignorant Pomona Sprout. She is not exactly the kind of person who would know how to deal with a child like Miss Davis very well.

I discovered this matter today, when she dove for a (very expensive) bottle, which her partner had carelessly knocked off of a counter. Her sleeves had slid nearly up to her elbows, leaving those pale wrists exposed. It was fortunate that I decided to watch her instead of waiting for the inevitable sound of breaking glass- if the Hufflepuff Quidditch team was anything to go by, they couldn't catch a cold in the middle of flu season. Alright, alright, bad joke…

But she was exposed now. Those scars… why had she made them? I called her up, presumably to return my bottle, which she had (by some miracle) caught. For a moment, I considered recommending her for Quidditch. She pulled her sleeves down as she approached. She handed me the bottle, and I gave her a detention for recklessness.

She will be here soon.


	2. Chapter 2

She knocks on the door precisely the minute she was told to be here. Well, at least she has some tact. I bid her entrance, and motion for her to sit. She does so promptly, purposefully avoiding my eyes. Strangely, she doesn't do so in the manner of other students; unlike other students, she does not bow her head to me, hiding her face. She looks in my direction, but refuses to look me in the eye. Her gaze hovers somewhere near my left shoulder instead.

"Miss Davis. You will look at my eyes and show respect when I speak to you."

I hate her confidence, how she looks so strong when it is obvious that I have the power in this situation. She turns her head slightly to me, but still does not look me in the eye. I must be more sharp to break this one.

"Miss Davis-"

"I heard you, Professor. I choose not to obey."

"And what harm does it do to you? You don't have a choice to disagree with me."

Now she looks at me directly, and in a steady, firm, but not loud voice, she says to me, "I have always, and will always, have a choice, Professor Snape. I know what you can do, and I refuse to obey."

Her tone infuriates me, but I must keep my face straight. What do Muggles call it? A 'poker face'? I must maintain my expression. This conversation is getting me nowhere. If she were younger, this would have been easier. Anyone below the fourth year usually starts sobbing in fear the instant I tell him to take his seat. But now Miss Davis is in her sixth year, and she has obviously decided to become an arrogant know-it-all teenager, as so many do. As if she has all of the answers in the world, as if she could beat any odds. Stupid child. She has no idea…

"Miss Davis, present your wrists."

She raises an eyebrow, still averting my gaze. "What will you do to them?" she asks. As if I was going to amputate her hands. Stupid, foolish child. Does she think I will eat her?

"Miss Davis, present your wrists- _now_."

She calmly rolls up her sleeves and holds out her arms. She wears a strange expression, a mocking, twisted smirk, as if she's saying, "Are you happy now, Professor? I've been a good dog." I take and hold them firmly, examining the tiny white lines on those bone-thin limbs. Some look almost superficial, as I had suspected, but a few look as if they were once deep and ragged. Near her elbow, I notice a hint of blue. It doesn't look like a bruise. I request permission to further examine her arm, and she pulled away.

"It's easier just to take the whole thing off," she says. I began to protest- I have no desire to see the… flesh of a student. And I have most certainly no desire to be laid off from my job. Before I can finish the first three words of my rebuttal, the garment is already removed. "Relax, professor. I wear several!" she says to me. "Do you really think I would expose myself like that? To anyone? Ha!" She sniffs and rolls her eyes. I should have guessed as much, come to think of it- she did always seem to wear a lot of clothing.

I see what that blue mark is now: her shoulders are covered in tattoos, swirls of blues and greys in the forms of faceless beings whose claws grasped out for another of their kind. I also noticed that they all wore masks similar to the Death Eaters. The notion bothered me. One of their hands was distorted- something so very fine that it took me a moment to see it. There was a slight wrinkle in her skin, just above the bicep.

"I'm not a museum exhibit, professor…" Her tone implies annoyance, but her expression is teasing, the light in her eyes a mischievous flicker. She says, "If you want to know something, can't you just ask?" Now she is more serious. What did I want? I suppose I just wanted to know where they came from. Not the tattoos, of course- those are trivial. I want to know about the scars.

"Miss Davis… I was merely curious as to where you acquired your scars. As you know, it is my job to ensure the health of my students. If you are in some kind of emotional distress, these," I motioned to her wrists, "are not the answers to your trouble."

I thought that sounded dignified enough, while using language she could understand. She made a jerking motion and bit her lip. For an instant, I thought she would break down- but she started laughing at me! I was appalled. How _dare_ she have the nerve? "Miss Davis! Control yourself!" I shouted as I raised my hand to her. She stopped dead.

"Professor Snape," she hissed. "Why don't _you_ control yourself, and put your hand down!" She slid out of the chair, backing away from me. Did I really want to strike her? Was I going to? I decided against it. A memory of my father occurred to me; I would not become him. Now she has her wand out, and from her stance I see her form. She isn't very tall, and likely never will be. Although she is very lean, I can see the outlines of her muscular structure- she has built herself up. I no longer wonder how she beat Crabbe during last week's fight. Even though she was smaller than he, she was faster- and with her muscle mass in the equation, he was short work.

She was still staring at me.

I saw her relax her shoulders when I lowered my hand.

"Now Professor, can't we converse like adults?" She forces a wan smile, still not lowering her wand. Very good move on her part. It shows me that she isn't as stupid as some of her peers, who seem to think that the second another appears as if he isn't a threat, it really means that there's no threat.

Still, I feel I must scold the girl. What was she thinking? Does she not consider how dangerous it is to cut her wrists, how she could accidentally commit suicide with the most minute slip? Or even worse, did she ever consider who could get hold of her blood and use it against her? "Miss Davis… Do not be a prat. There is no need to do something as daft, something as foolish and imprudent as hacking away at your own flesh as some means of relieving pressure. If you feel you must do something to manage stress, try taking up Quidditch."

She studies me as if I've grown a second head. Her next words were those that I completely expected: "I didn't do it." As if I was supposed to believe that. What she said after that, I believed even less, but the more she told, the more likely it seemed.


	3. Chapter 3

"Merlin…" I murmured, reclining at my desk. Although it was getting late by now, nearly ten o' clock, I had no intention of letting her leave yet. Honestly, I did not expect to be any longer than an hour here. I had intended to reprimand her for careless and selfish behaviour, and then supply a multitude of things to scrub until clean and sparkling for an hour. What I found was that she was stubborn and defiant, and… quite… interesting. She had a few incredible tales, and did not mind telling them upon askance.

Upon hearing that the cuts on her wrist were a form of torture, I did not believe her. Children often make up wild tales to cover their tracks, forgetting that they are easily discovered. Furthermore, when she told me the story, she sounded disconnected, without emotional attachment. There was no fear, anger, or sadness to her voice. I believe she even laughed once or twice. It was not normal. I should know. However, the more questions I asked, she seemed to look into my eyes more often. I was able to use my skills as an Occlumens to discover her intentions. Did she weave these stories for attention? I suspected that this was the case, but flashes of her memory proved otherwise. She was absolutely truthful, telling events unadulterated. I asked about the scars underneath the tattoos as well. She said that it would take forever to tell each story, but said that some were from other forms of torture, some were from fights, and some were mere accidents. And then I asked her why she covered those, and not her wrists.

She said, "It's not that I choose to cover this one, but not the other. I will eventually hide these too, but I haven't gotten to them yet. I don't like to think about the people who gave me them. If I can cover them with art, I have new stories to tell. Notice that on this shoulder," she reached and pointed to certain sections of her right shoulder, "All of the scars are small. They have gone into the Ecthroi's hands, giving them definition. They are part of the work. They are covered, but not hidden. Hated, but glorified. It's easier for me to think of the Ecthroi, and what they are, beings much like dementors. I don't want to remember sliding across three metres of pavement over broken glass all the time, you know."

I winced slightly at the notion of the latter event. She smiles and looks down, a faint blush across her cheeks. "Professor… I have an idea, as to what you are thinking… please know that no matter what happens, I can't change what I've done or seen. I don't want to change what happened to me. I used to, but now I realize that there's no need to. When the Death Eaters strike the castle- and they will soon, Professor, don't shy away! It's only a matter of time… When they come, I'll be better prepared than the others. I'll survive because I already know pain. I'm not going to collapse upon the first scrape. I'll fight like hell, or I'll die in the process."

I cannot breathe as she stares up at me with those crystalline blue eyes and soft grin. What kind of person behaves in this way? She cannot possibly grasp the concept of death and war, but to welcome and submit to the fact… most cannot do this. Our Minister of Magic cannot do this, half of the Hogwarts Staff cannot do this, the majority of the students here cannot do this. I must force myself upon the inevitability of war, but only because I am in direct contact with the opposing forces. And I know that even though this child has a strong will, and possibly a high tolerance for pain, she will not escape alive. There is no chance for her. Yet she resigns herself to this idea of war and of casualties. Merlin… and she is Hufflepuff! She doesn't belong in that House, not with thoughts like hers.

"Death is not a concept to play at, Miss Davis. Neither is war. You know full well that you won't get out alive, and don't dream that you will. You are a child, a child that cannot keep up on basic schoolwork at that. You could not manage handling yourself on a battlefield. You cannot take orders. You, Miss Davis, would perish."

Why did I say that? Of course, I meant the first two sentences. But to remove all hope for her- perhaps she really will slash her wrists now. Her head is down; her hands are folded in her lap. She is almost rigid. I can barely hear her soft voice when she speaks her few last words for the night. "I know that, Professor. But I must try. I cannot and will not give up so easily as you would have me to. I will survive. I don't care who I have to kill to do it either. War is war, and there are no rules to follow except that you kill or be killed. I'll make it, Professor. I always have."

Such a strong will. Stronger than I was when I was her age. Of course, by her age I was also a Death Eater, but she doesn't know that. There is a chance she will survive, but only if I can make her stronger through training. She certainly won't get that in Hufflepuff. Now, I have an idea. I can take her in… not through myself, of course. She isn't Slytherin, so I can't cover that up. But I can use Albus to do so. What else can I do? Anyone with the will to fight, not run away, that kind especially needs to be cultivated. She is right- the Death Eater armies are coming. She must be able to fight.

I end the night and demand that she not speak of our conversation. There is no rebuttal from her. She smiles and bows, then softly shuts the door behind her. I sift through the parchment on my desk to find a clean sheet, and begin drafting my ideas. I wonder how many more students like her there are.


End file.
